Serenya’s fingers found the Vex sigil at her wrist, tracing the circular brand. The dragons had destroyed the people who could have helped them understand magic beyond their elemental affinities. Now they summoned the survivors when their ignorance finally threatened their precious dominion.
She circled the library’s perimeter, checking the outer wards with the methodical precision Mirel had drilled into her during those early years. The ash-witch had found her three weeks after Eris Hollow fell, half-starved and wild with grief.
“Survival first, child. Revenge is a luxury for those who live long enough to savor it.”
The lumen sigils she’d carved into the foundation stones pulsed with steady white-gold light, each one linked to the next in an unbroken chain of protection. They’d hold against conventional Gloamrot—she was certain of that much. What stalked the outskirts of the city now, though, wasn’t conventional anything.
She paused at the library’s northwestern corner, where the wind carried something that made her stomach clench. Rot and cold iron, the signature scent of the shadow-plague when it began mimicking human shapes. But wrong somehow—too many limbs, angles that bent in directions anatomy didn’t allow. Even after years studying Gloamrot remnants, she’d never encountered corruption magic thatlearned.
Someone was teaching it to think. Had to be. The alternative—that it was developing intelligence on its own—didn’t bear considering.
“Serenya Vex.”
She spun toward the voice, her hand instinctively moving to the knife hidden beneath her blouse. Three figures approachedthrough the volcanic haze, their dark armor marking them as House Obsidian before she could make out their faces. The one who’d spoken was tall and broad, moving with the economical grace of a career soldier. Silver streaked his cropped black hair at the temples, and a diagonal scar crossed his jaw like a signature carved in flesh.
Commander Kyr Dravos. She’d heard the name whispered in the same breath as terms like ‘executioner’ and ‘the Bastion.’ Warlord Vaelrik’s right hand, the one who carried out orders without question or mercy.
“Commander.” She didn’t bother hiding the ice in her voice. “Lovely afternoon for a stroll. Pity about the impending apocalypse.”
His slate-gray eyes fixed on her with the intensity of a man accustomed to being obeyed without question. Thin rings of ember-red flickered around his pupils—dragon fire barely contained. “You’re to surrender yourself to the Council’s summons. Immediately and without attitude.”
Serenya felt her mouth curve into a smile sharp enough to cut glass. “Well, you’ve managed one out of two. I’m impressed by your optimism regarding the second.”
The two soldiers flanking Kyr exchanged glances that spoke of shared suffering. One actually winced.
“This is not a request,” Kyr continued, his voice steady as bedrock. “The Council requires your expertise. Now.”
“Oh,nowthey require my expertise.” She adjusted her satchel’s strap across her shoulder, the leather worn smooth from six months of conscripted service. “Funny how that works. Spend years ignoring every warning about shadow corruption magic, but the moment their precious citadel faces actual threat, suddenly the witch they’ve been treating like a glorified janitor becomes indispensable.”
“Your feelings about Council policy are irrelevant.” Kyr stepped closer, and she caught the scent of storm-fire that clung to his armor—dark red flames edged in blue-white lightning, the residue of battles she could only imagine. “You will come with us.”
“Or what?” She tilted her head, studying his scarred face with the clinical detachment she’d learned from Mirel. “You’ll drag me through the streets like some common criminal? That should play well with the citizenry who’ve watched me reinforce their defenses for months.”
Kyr’s eyes narrowed, ember-red rings flaring briefly before he controlled them. “I won’t ask again.”
“Good thing you weren’t asking the first time.” Serenya gripped her satchel tighter. The weight of charcoal and silver dust reminded her of every ward she’d carved and every curse she’d unraveled in service to dragons who’d burned her childhood to ash. “Lead the way, Commander. Let’s see what fresh crisis requires my immediate and attitude-free attention.”
As they escorted her down the winding path toward Cinderhollow’s fog-drenched streets, she tried not to think about her mother’s final moments. Tried not to remember the sound of protective sigils cracking under dragonfire, or the way magic felt when it died.
The irony tasted bitter as smoke. The same House that had ordered Eris Hollow’s destruction now needed her bloodline’s power to save them from shadows they’d been too arrogant to understand.
Before long, the basalt gates of Cinderhollow Citadel opened like the mouth of a furnace, revealing corridors that pulsed with heat and political menace. Serenya felt the temperature spike as they crossed the threshold, her skin prickling with more than volcanic warmth. The very stones here radiated power—House Obsidian’s elemental fire had been woven into the foundationcenturies ago, and it responded to the presence of dragons like a living thing.
Obsidian mirrors lined the walls, their surfaces reflecting distorted versions of reality. She caught glimpses of herself fractured into a dozen angles, each one showing different expressions of wariness and defiance. The scent of molten glass and old secrets hung thick in the air.
“The Council has determined,” Kyr said as they navigated corridors carved from volcanic rock, his voice carefully neutral, “that your expertise requires... enhancement.”
Serenya’s steps faltered slightly. “Enhancement. How delightfully vague. Are we talking about additional resources?”
“A mutual pairing.” The words came out clipped. “A compatible counterpart.”
Ice shot down her spine despite the furnace heat around them. She’d heard whispers of such things—ancient dragon practices that bound magic users together for enhanced power. And if the Council was desperate enough to bind her to something, then whatever waited behind those approaching doors was far worse than the plague outside.
“Compatible counterpart.” She let the phrase hang in the air. “How wonderfully clinical. Should I assume this ‘counterpart’ had any say in the arrangement, or are we both being volunteered for the greater good?”
Kyr’s jaw tightened, the diagonal scar across it pulling taut. “The subject is already secured in the Council chambers.”
“So much for wanting my advice,” she muttered, her fingers instinctively finding the Vex sigil at her wrist.
